Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.
Thanks as always to TJ4EV and Saemay.
Inspirational music and title from the achingly beautifully sublime Flames by VAST, and from the passionate Can't Pretend by Tom Odell. You'll recognize the latter from S5E6.
Feedback = Love. Thanks for everyone that has given me encouragement and for continuing to read this. xx
Ch. 17 Flames
Hal's head wrenches to the side, his neck twisting, as pain blossoms on his left cheek. He can feel the shape of her hand, a stinging echo, burning on his skin. He opens his eyes to stare at his makeshift quarry. It looks like a cairn. Contrition. Penance. Exoneration - could he ever really truly achieve that? He shakes his head sadly. No need for a cairn for him. With a sigh he turns back to her slowly, calmly, and stares directly into the depths of her eyes, willing her to continue.
Yet she stands immobile, frozen.
Without removing his gaze, he reaches for the hand holding the werewolf blood, cupping it firmly, and brings it up right between them. He unstoppers the vial, the pungent smell immediately assaulting his senses, causing him to flinch reflexively. He can hear her heartbeat accelerate, becoming a thrum as her eyes widen and she takes a sharp breath.
He gives her an encouraging nod. "This is the proper thing to do. I always knew there was only one way you could save me, only one way to set me free. I cannot change the past, and however I try to atone for it, I can never reach absolution. This. This really is all that is left."
With a sigh Hal reaches for the blood.
No, no, no NO! Sylvie stands transfixed, the ice she'd nurtured cracked, and a storm laced with fire raging inside as her mind reels and her heart beats painfully in her chest. She stares into Hal's fathomless eyes, those eyes that had haunted her dreams. Yellow-black-blue-hazel; countless times those eyes had cycled in her nightmares as she stood confronting the monster. Countless times she had wished for the blood she could use as a weapon. Lacking it, her unconscious mind had latched on to the the one thing in her heart that held the promise of safety.
Gemma's last words to her, whispered as she boarded her carriage, echo in her mind and it all slots into place.
You call out his name in your sleep.
When Hal tries to remove the vial, she tightens her fingers. She sees him swallow thickly and his jaw clench with resolution, though in his eyes there is an immeasurable sorrow. Unable to pry the vial from her, he moves her hand, vial and all, towards his lips. As it nears he shuts his eyes tight - instinct? fear? - but he doesn't stay his movement. He parts his lips to take the proverbial hemlock straight from her hands.
"No!", she says it out loud this time, and yanks her hand out of his, throwing the vial to the ground where it shatters, spilling the deep crimson harmlessly into the barren ground.
Hal's eyes fly open, a look of utter astonishment on his face.
She reaches up to tangle her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and roughly lowers his head to kiss his parted lips. Frustration, fear, anger, pain - she channels it all into that kiss. He stands stiffly, unresponsive, but then, recovering from his shock, he kisses her back, his lips soft and eager against hers. A spark of flames ignites within her, and she melts into him, but as she feels his hands grab for her waist, a flutter of doubt causes her to break away.
Not trusting herself to speak, she runs away as hot tears begin to spill. The sound of her own pumping blood a deafening rush in her ears, she barely hears Hal's cry for her as she sprints past the blur of three startled people standing by the front door, past her carriage with the frowning werewolf, down the path, then veering towards the river. She runs through the dead brush almost blindly, the blur of trees near the river her only guide, until she stumbles on a rock, breaking her fall with her hands. She stays down, her cheek pressed to the frozen ground, her breath hitched and ragged as her memories assault her.
For weeks she'd struggled with her memories, struggled with her fears. She'd sought to bury both, to bury the pain - pain from what she'd endured, pain from knowing the truth about Hal, pain from feeling betrayed, from her own naive stupidity. But now, seeing Hal once more, suppressed details surface. She remembers him: pushing himself physically, mercilessly, till he fell exhausted; locking his body down for hours, escaping into his mind; his trembling, his strangled cries, his tears, his gentle cradling of her in his arms. She remembers him being held by two werewolves, struggling to get to her blood, yet screaming for them to take her away from him.
And she remembers being afraid. But not of him.
This epiphany had hit her the moment she saw him again, turning her thoughts upside down and her emotions inside out.
Of course she calls out his name in her sleep, her unconscious mind acknowledging what she so carefully had avoided. He was the one that had made her feel safe, when the monsters prowled outside their door.
In her dreams he isn't the monster; he is her saviour.
But how can she love him, how can she feel safe with him, knowing the things he'd done?
She sobs until her tears are spent.
Some time later the thought to be thankful that she has gloves on enters her mind. Shivering, she gets up carefully, checking for scrapes from her fall. It wouldn't do to have fresh wounds. Tiredly, she trudges to the bank of the river, sitting under the ash trees with a resigned sigh. She listens for footsteps that may have followed, but the stillness in the trees is disturbed only by a muffled bubbling noise, the rush of the water unseen below the icy exterior the river presents to the world. She stares at the river trying to find that comforting blanket of nothingness once more, but it has irrevocably lifted, exposing the raw ache of the truth.
She isn't prepared for this.
She takes her gloves off, despite the cold, to look down at her ring. She twirls it around as she thinks, pulls it off to look at the inscription.
my love. my hope. my salvation.
Jacob's whispered words echo in her mind. 'Do you think you are the first? They all thought they could save him.'
She stands up and walks to the very edge of the river.
She remembers the night Hal first showed her the inscription. 'Today marks the longest time I've been with a human woman. The longest anyone's survived.' He'd woken sobbing from a nightmare of killing her. That was almost a year ago.
She watches the slow passage of the water under her extended hand as she stares at the ring.
After a long time she replaces the ring on her finger. A compromise then. Better to pretend not to care. Better to be like the ice-capped river, the turbulence hidden by a layer of frost.
She doesn't hear his approach; her contemplation is suddenly disturbed by his softly spoken words. "You look... well."
She starts, turning away from the water. He appears strained, tired. More so than usual. Impossible to know his mind, his mask in place. But the strain is clear on his face, exhaustion in his bearing. "You look like death warmed over."
Hal grimaces and drops all attempts at light conversation. "Sylvie, you should not have come here. I thought I made it clear in my le -"
She cuts him off. "Your letter did not expressly forbid me coming. I checked all four sentences to be sure."
Hal closes his eyes in annoyance. "It was implied. Why are you here? If you came on an errand to end my life you've failed."
Tonelessly she says, "It would seem I've come to be your keeper."
He frowns at her. "My keeper? I can assure you, the werewolf here is quite capable."
"But you are my responsibility, not that of the werewolves. I made a promise when I stopped Federico from killing you, do you recall? And so here I am. To make certain you remain tame."
"But-"
She talks over him, "Shall we call it 'The Taming of the Vampire?'" He frowns at her. "No, you are right. It should be 'The Taming of the Hal'. I am convinced your shrew-like qualities are your own, not due to your condition." Her forced impassivity is cracked by a smirk.
Hal mumbles under his breath, "If anyone could be called a shrew..." before saying louder, "You must leave. I do not want you here."
The tease slips out, "Oh Hal, did you not miss me at all?"
"It certainly has been... quieter, without your presence." He retorts sharply before softening his eyes, his voice pleading, "Sylvie, this is no place for you. I need to be kept away from as many humans as possible. You didn't see. How I was. After." He huffs, "I'm not safe." His eyes betray his pain.
His look breaks her heart. Not a monster. Not my Hal. But he won't always be her Hal, will he? Suddenly it's all too much, the world starts spinning and she feels sick. She must have swayed for he reaches out to steady her but she flinches away. "Hal, I do not have the energy to argue with you about this."
Hal's face falls at her rebuff, but he nods in agreement. "Finally some sense. I will tell your escort to bring the carriage down the path so that you don't have as far to walk."
"No, I mean I am not leaving and will hear no argument from you. It has been a long journey and I wish to be shown to my room now." She grabs her gloves and turns dismissively, leaving Hal no option but to follow her back to their new home.
When Sylvie is shown to her room, she barely removes her clothes before falling exhaustedly on the bed. Her nightmare fails to make its appearance and well into the next day she wakes feeling more alive than she had in the previous two months.
Knowing Hal had been sent into isolation, she expects a lack servants; thus when she opens the door to fetch water and food, she is surprised to find a girl just outside her door, waiting for her to wake. The girl, Beth, explains that she had just been hired, along with her mother, to cook and keep the house, and would serve as her maid. The previously arrangement had them coming up twice weekly to perform their duties, but escorted home to the village. While she slept, Hal had insisted and made arrangements for them to be hired permanently, and now they would be housed in the outbuilding. Beth leaves to direct one of the werewolves to bring up a bath and comes back with food. Sylvie can barely contain her hunger; she devours the food, making up for lost meals. Her new maid goes about settling in her things - she had few of her possessions, the rest had been left for safekeeping down south; she hadn't expected to need them on her voyage. When the bath is ready Sylvie, deep in thoughts on how just twenty-four hours can change one's entire outlook, disrobes without a thought for modesty. Her maid's sudden gasp brings her back to her reality.
She had avoided mirrors, though not out of any sense of vanity; she had been frightened that if she saw them all at once, the fragile reserve she had constructed would come crashing down. "Beth, would you bring that mirror over from the corner?" The girl keeps staring at her for a few moments before complying, placing the standing mirror by the bath. Sylvie keeps her eyes averted until it is in front of her, unsure of her own reaction. Finally she looks up.
"Such small things," she whispers to herself, though in her heart they are anything but small. A few are already fading into pinpricks, but she is certain at least half will remain scars. Here and there the puncture marks are connected - welts having faded to crescent shaped broken lines. She traces the one over her heart, the link of memory leading her to recall the stories of Hal's viciousness, before she can stop it. This is a mistake. "Take it away. Please," she orders, then sinks, hiding, into the waiting water. Beth is sensible enough to not ask, but Sylvie feels the need to explain it away, so as not to start stories. "I was attacked by a pack of wild dogs. It is a sensitive matter, as you can understand, not something a lady would want made public?" She phrases the last as a question and is relieved to see the girl acquiesce. Hopefully she will not prove a gossipmonger.
Over the course of the following days she explores her new home, beginning to adjust to her new life. The interior of the cottage is three stories of whitewashed sandstone and oak-beamed ceilings. It is much cozier than their previous home, but that suits her, envelopes her in comfort at the onset. It is kept well sheltered from the frigid elements by dense glass set in the stone mullioned windows, these covered with thick green velvet curtains, and massive inglenook fireplaces in every room. Of the bedrooms off the second story landing, the last down the hall is joined to its neighbor and only accessible through the latter- these are the rooms Hal has confiscated for himself. Her room is right off the stairs; when he'd opened the door for her Hal had said, "Closer to the stairs. For safety." His face had betrayed him; both knew the fallacy of that statement. That left an empty room across from his and two small ones on the first floor, normally servants quarters; those would house the two werewolves for the foreseeable future.
The house had come furnished, the pieces built for comfort in a more casual style than either of her two previous homes. The colour pallette predominantly mimicked the land surrounding - light fabrics for the stones, accents in the cerulean blue of a cloudless summer sky and the lush greens of the hills. Most of the walls had been left unadorned, but downstairs murals of trees cover the large parlour with built-in window seats. A library in darker tones, the dining room, and kitchen round up the the rustic yet tasteful abode. She delightedly discovers a well tuned piano-forte in the parlour at which she may while away the long winter hours. Snow had begun falling while she slept.
She is careful to remain distant, avoiding Hal as much as possible, which proves not exactly difficult. Unless the snow is falling in flurries, the daylight hours not spent closed off in his rooms he spends toiling under the bare-branched oak tree. Coming inside just before nightfall, he passes the evenings first with a bath, then supper, and finally reading before retiring to his rooms. She had expected strict orders for her departure, but instead had been surprised to be met with a resigned silence. They sit at meals together, might be in the same room together reading, might occasionally talk about inconsequential things, but otherwise he withdraws into himself, quiet to the extreme. Which suits Sylvie - she isn't sure how well she could maintain a mask of indifference if they talked about themselves, this fragile situation, or their future. Sometimes she can't help but picture him covered in blood, imagine how cruel and inhumane he could be, and has to leave the room; other times she can't help but remember him before London, remember how gentle and passionate he is, and has to leave the room.
But occasionally curiosity gets the better of her and she breaches the chasm between them, as when she wondered out loud to him about the empty barn. A man had been hired to keep the horses and carriage she'd arrived in down at the village; bi-weekly runs of supplies were brought up, then the carriage would depart once more. Hal had looked at her solemnly, stating simply, "Horses would make it easier for me to get away, to get to the humans."
She had to leave the room.
In the end it is the wolves that bring them back to each other.
As the full moon nears, Sylvie comes upon them talking, making their plans. Unlike Federico who hated what he became, these two speak of it lightly with each other; a monthly sport they anticipate. They delightedly recount stories of their vampires kills; they jest about the incident in London.
This is a good thing. It is right that the vampires met their end. It is right that the wolves mettled out death to them.
Then she hears them talk about Hal. How they are itching to see him fail, itching for an excuse to kill him.
Her nightmare returns that night.
She wakes screaming, covers tossed, nightgown drenched in sweat. Knowing now she calls out not in fear of Hal, but for him, the fear of the dream dissipates quickly; what had been an ache of pain and betrayal in the past becomes a different ache that settles into the pit of her belly. She is done with the numbness and cold; she longs for comfort, for heat. She longs for Hal.
That day she finds it hard to remain still, hard to remain impassive. Even playing Mozart fast and hard - something Hal finds very scandalous - is not enough to quell the nervous energy building up inside her. Time outside doesn't hold her interest either. She'd already explored the grounds, building a dozen snow people to keep her company - Hal had refrained from comment, but she had seen his raised eyebrow as he'd walked past them. The river provided no solace - it had begun frustrating her, so insipid, so lifeless. She continued to avoid the cleared side of the house - the werewolves were tasked to keep the ground there free of snow for Hal to have his private play area.
And so she decides to sneak into his rooms. She had avoided them in her previous explorations, not wanting to make it more difficult to keep herself separate from him, but now she feels an irresistible call to them. The first room serves as antechamber with a desk, plush chairs, and shelves of books, of course - a replacement for his study at the old house. With a swish of her skirts she steps resolutely into the bedroom, looking around at the surprising familiarity of it. Despite the new furnishings, the new locations, it still has the feel of Hal, down to the placement of his toiletries and the precise way his shined shoes are arranged in a corner. She wanders around the room touching his things: his brush and razor on the table by the washbasin; his robe hanging on a peg by the armoire; the tidy stack of dirty clothing folded on one of the chairs waiting for Ruth the housekeeper to pick up. She picks up his pillow, holding it to her face, and breathes in his scent.
Glancing out the window at the back of the room, she finds the best vantage point to observe him at his enterprise and finally realizes what he is doing. When she'd first seen him there, she thought he was simply lining up stones by size - busy work to keep his mind occupied and his presence away from housebound humans. But from the vantage point of the second floor she realizes it is so much more: a spiral of stones is taking shape from the base of the tree. The bare ground has become muddy, but sticks serve as place holders along the many revolutions of the spiral.
She watches as he stands up lithely - damn the man for being so beautiful in his movements - to walk to the shrinking pile of stones for the next piece of his puzzle; how he strides purposefully, his overcoat open, lacking cravat and waistcoat, his shirt collar unbuttoned exposing his neck, the material clinging to the planes of his chest, his hair a mess. Accustomed to his normally immaculate appearance, she is struck by the wildness of him - something usually reserved for their bedroom. Her heart begins beating faster and she pulls away from the window lest he somehow hears it. Not wanting to be caught in the room she hurries out, but not before grabbing his night shirt, which is folded at the foot of the bed.
Hal hears her screaming. His name. This is the third night she's woken from an obvious nightmare. The first and second night, her scream had awoken him from his own sleep, but this time he'd been waiting expectantly. For hours he'd been thinking of the past two weeks, of the past seven years, really. The tedium of the first five years of this cycle had been invaded, transformed, into a reality that included him having fallen in love with the very creature he needed to isolate himself from. In many ways it would be infinitely easier to manage his condition if she were gone. But would he want to go back to a time when she wasn't in his life? She'd asked him what was the point of living without love. In another lifetime his answer would have been immediate - ambition and survival, at all costs. In another lifetime he would have avoided all attachments, particularly the mortal kind. In this one, however, the love he feels for her is gut-wrenching, physical; the thought of being free of it unbearably painful.
His shock at seeing her had turned to elation when she had knocked the poison away, when she had kissed him. But that had quickly evaporated when it was clear her feelings had changed, understandably, irrevocably. She should leave; he'd urged her to. Yet when she insisted on remaining, out of some sense of obligation, he selfishly remained silent, distant. He told himself he was simply continuing the tasks that kept him from reverting; he drove himself hard daily to ensure that the world was safe from him, that she was safe from him. It had nothing to do with avoidance.
He can hear her sobbing softly; the sound easy for him to pick out in the stillness of the night. He wants to comfort her, but how can he when he is the subject of her horror. He remains in bed another minute before deciding to confront her. Getting up he grabs his robe - despite the fires kept going all night, the chill hits his bare chest. He puts the robe on as he walks resolutely to her room. He knocks on her door softly, but fearing a negative response, he doesn't wait for a reply before entering.
What he sees illuminated by the light from the fireplace is what one would naturally expect - she is sitting up on the bed crying, the bedclothes are strewn on the floor, her nightgown and hair rumpled and unkempt. Unexpected, however, is what she is crying into. His missing nightshirt.
Hal frowns, walking to the side of the bed. "Sylvie, this has to stop. You should not put yourself through this torture for my sake. The werewolf is more than capable of keeping me from doing anything I shall regret. You must leave, for your own peace."
He expects immediate acquiescence. He expects an argument. What she says catches him off guard.
Her muffled voice comes out after a couple of hiccups, "I used to dream of you, did I tell you? After our first meeting." She sniffs and wipes her eyes on his shirt - how had he not realized she had taken it - before her eyes and voice take on a dreamy quality. "You were a knight, or a prince, come to rescue me. You would kiss me, as the princes do in Les Contes des Fées, and take me away on wonderous adventures." She smiles lopsidedly, before meeting his eyes, "Or I would be the rescuer, come to set you free from that chair you were strapped to. You would fall at my feet begging me to take you away. Sometimes I made you beg a while, but I always gave in. How could I resist those pleading eyes of yours? Either way, we always lived happily ever after..."
Hal looks at her sadly, stating sympathetically, "And now I am a nightmare."
She whispers her contradiction. "You would think so, especially after all that I learned about you."
Hal is instantly wary, but keeps his face smooth. What had Jacob told her? "I don't understand."
Sylvie hesitates, then lays his shirt on her lap and pulls up her long sleeves, thrusting her arms forward. "These. These represent stories. I stopped counting after the tenth one. Jacob... when he came to me... he would tell me stories. Of you. Each one of these holds a memory of The Great Lord Harry, of his conquests, of his killings. The details of how much you enjoyed it..."
Hal winces and averts his eyes, guilt and shame etched in his face. Thirty-two. He'd counted when he'd checked to make sure she wasn't bleeding out. Thirty-two times she'd been bitten. He knew that was a message for him. Hand well-played.
He forces himself to meet her eyes. "Did he... did Jacob... hurt you... in any other way?" Hal can't keep his voice from cracking by the end of the sentence.
The look that passes on her face is odd but she says simply, "He didn't have to."
Hal sighs relieved. Bad enough she knows, how much worse if Jacob had decided on some practical demonstrations. Which stories had she heard? Had she heard about the girl?
The girl. Jacob's girl. Hal knew her name but did not let it surface to his consciousness. She had fared far worse than Sylvie. Thirty-two days is a long time to play with, a long time for a human to endure, considering his appetites. Considering that he'd been extra... inventive... in order to teach Jacob a lesson.
Lost in thought, he realizes he's missed some of her words. Focusing he catches, "... and I'd like you to send the werewolves away."
Hal frowns at her odd request. "But they are here to protect you."
"I know they are our friends, I know they were there to rescue us in London. But... all I can think about are their howls and the terror I felt each time they rammed the door, trying to breach our security."
"Sylvie, as much as it pains me to admit this, they aren't the monsters. That title I can claim solely for myself in this situation."
She whispers. "But it is you I feel safe with."
Hal huffs incredulously. "You saw what vampires are capable of. You heard what I've done. How can you feel that way?"
Suddenly she lunges out of bed in front of him, her eyes fiery, her voice raised heatedly, "Fuck, Hal, don't you think I've wondered the same? Can you imagine how I've been suffering with my conscience over this? One minute we'll be sitting at tea, thoughts of Jacob's whispered stories will enter my mind, and I want to grab a piece of wood from the fireplace to stake you with. The next minute Ruth will come in to clear the dishes, you'll run away to hide in your room to do press-ups, and it's all I can do to stop myself from running after you to maul you with lust!"
Hal's eyebrows shoot up as he mouths the words 'maul with lust' questionably.
She ignores him and continues her tirade. "Why do you think I've been avoiding you? I know what you are capable of now; it's no longer an esoteric concept. Yet I can't pretend that I don't still love you. What does that say about me? If you are a monster, what does that make me? Damned, surely!"
"Sylvie, this... this is insane."
"Yes," she agrees, "It is insane! About as insane as a vampire resisting his inherent nature to care for his prey. You had me practically handed to you on a platter and you did not give in. You promised me no more harm, and you kept that promise. I was prepared to hate you, to despise you; for a while I'd convinced myself I did. But damn it, you make it so bloody difficult!" She looks away, taking a calming breath. When she faces him again, with tear-filled eyes, she reaches up to caress his cheek as she says quietly, "I came here to kill you. But my heart prevents it." Dropping her hand she continues, "I've seen the lengths you've gone to keep another promise to me: to not give up fighting. Knowing now some of the things you are capable of... it frightens me... but also puts your resistance into perspective. Your struggle is even more powerful than I imagined, all the more admirable."
Hal huffs, shaking his head. "Can you ever let sleeping dogs lie? Don't you understand? I asked Jacob to find me. I wanted him to help me break the cycle. That life, the power... I fear and long for it in equal measure. The struggle you admire will not last. It is inevitable. All that is left is to mark time."
Sylvie searches his face, her eyes boring into him, measuring, before delivering an ultimatum. "No Hal, all that is left is to prove you wrong. Consider my presence here incentive. You will have to fight it Hal, to keep me safe, because I have no intention of leaving."
Hal enters the front door with a deep sigh of relief. The wolves are finally gone. His sore, tense muscles relax as he no longer detects the scent of them. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but their presence had chafed, an added measure of security he'd agreed upon, but resented nonetheless.
The humans are locked up tight in the other building, so for once the house is left to him and Sylvie. He expects to find her reading at her favourite windowseat before the last of the light fades with incoming nightfall, but does not find her there; all is silent downstairs. She must have retired to her room early; not an unusual occurrence. After their discussion - or more accurately, her lecture - she'd spent the past week writing letters, making arrangements, taking the reins of the house. This suited him perfectly - the less dealings he had with humans the better. Her demeanor had changed drastically. His infuriatingly mischievous, dangerously curious, wonderously breathtaking Sylvie was back. Yet she had still kept her distance from him.
With another sigh, a hint of disappointment, he proceeds up to his room.
And that's where he finds her. In his bath.
He'd opened and closed the door to the antechamber silently, and as customary the connecting door to the bedroom proper had been left open, so he comes upon her unaware as she reclines in the water with her eyes closed, her face relaxed. The room is filled with a lavender-scented warmth permeating the air, a soothing counterpoint to the cold dampness he's just come in from. He stands mutely in the doorway, admiring the way damp tendrils have escaped her chignon to frame her face, and continue enticingly down her delicate neck before gracing the tops of her breasts visible above the water line. Her bent knees enticingly expose part of her thighs. His reaction to her is instantaneous, yearning, yet it had been several months since they had been intimate and the last time he had seen her unclothed she'd been covered in blood and bites. He considers the option to turn away.
Finally he closes the door to the bedroom with a resolute click.
At the sound, Sylvie opens her eyes to find Hal at the door. She hadn't precisely planned to be in his room, naked, waiting for him; she'd simply had a sudden urge to take a bath. Seeing as how the tub had been brought up to his room for his evening soak, she'd had no option but to come here. She hadn't been listening for him either. Well, she had, and damn him, how had he come in so silently? Butterflies flutter madly in her belly and her heart instantly races to a staccato rhythm when she meets his gaze. He smoulders.
Hal watches as she rises out of the bath, tendrils of water flowing down her curves, her skin rosy and slick. He saunters forward without losing eye contact and stops in front of her holding out his hand, palm up. Her eyes widen slightly, but finally she places her hand in his and he helps her step out of the tub. Then he takes the waiting towel and dries her slowly, holding her gaze the entire time, giving her time to decide if she will send him away. When he is done he tosses the towel aside and finally looks down at her body. Seeing the proof of the horror she had endured because of him etched on her body, his voice comes out hitched, "I am so sorry for this. For everything." With the slightest of touches, almost reverently, Hal brushes his fingers across the bite-mark above her heart.
Sylvie flinches reflexively, pulling in a sharp breath. Hal pulls back, his eyes beseeching, silently imploring her to forgive him, to allow him to continue. She is transfixed by his look but must have made some signal, for he leans forward to brush the same spot with his lips in an air-light, gentle kiss. Then he takes her hand, lifting it up to tenderly caresses the scar at her wrist with his fingers before pressing his lips to it as well.
Slowly, he moves from one mark to the next, fingers tracing, then lips kissing each one. He makes his way up her arm and across to the other, criss-crossing her torso, moving lower with each pass. When he crouches down, moves to her thighs, parting them to reach the tender spots where her femoral arteries run, her gasp is ragged, the fact that she'd been holding her breath only now apparent. As his soft lips brush lightly over the first mark on her inner thighs the slow simmer of the past weeks turns to flames, to want, to need.
He leaves her neck for last. He's always been careful to avoid it, temptation preeminent in the life-giving veins so clearly visible, accessible. He stands once more, the eyes meeting hers gleaming with their intensity. He leans into her, his hands coming to up to her hips, his cheek pressed against hers, the stubble a soft tingle on her skin as he whispers, "Your scent makes me mad for you." Then very carefully, very deliberately, he presses his lips at her pulse. He pauses there, she feels his lips part, moist breath caress her skin, before he pulls away to meet her eyes, his clear and untroubled by thirst.
She caresses his cheek and whispers, "Just make me forget, Hal."
He kisses her scars again, this time whispering lines of sonnets, whispering the lines of his courting poem to her. With each touch of his lips, with each word he utters, his breath caressing blemished skin, he is replaying the horror, erasing it, replacing the pain with tenderness. It heals her soul; the ache, the fear, the uncertainty all ease away with his touch.
By the time he crouches once more, reaching for her thighs, her skin is aflame and tingly; she is wet and throbbing. She whimpers as his fingers and lips make their way up her thighs in achingly slow touches, and when he suddenly hooks her knee up over his shoulder and licks into her wetness, her other knee buckles; she threads her fingers into his hair to hold on as she's overcome by a heady dizziness.
He uses his strong hands to hold her up, fingers digging into her hips as his tongue glides expertly against her, inside her, repeatedly, persuasively, and it doesn't take long before she cries out, shuddering and collapsing forward. In one smooth move he catches her and straightens up; when she stops trembling he scoops her up into his arms, carrying her over to the bed and carefully depositing her on it.
Hal takes off his coat, folding it neatly on the table next to the bed before removing his boots, then his trousers, also folding them neatly. Making an inpatient noise, Sylvie reaches for him before he can finish undressing. Despite the release she'd just experienced, she pulls him down onto the bed roughly, almost desperately, the flames having only been stoked higher rather than quenched. Feeling his weight on her makes her breathe a happy sigh, which he captures with a sweet kiss. She savours his mouth, sucking on his lower lip, enjoying the plump softness, before letting him pull up and gazing into his luminous eyes, moist with tears. The intensity contained in them belies the tenderness of his touch. He cradles her against him with his left arm while he reaches up to pull the pins from her hair, then smoothes it out along the pillow, his fingers twining themselves in a curl that he brings up to his lips. Then his fingers travel in a long unbroken caress: down from her hair to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her lips, fingers trailing the length of her neck, down her arm, his thumb brushing her nipple as he continues down the side of her ribs to her hip and thigh. His touches are gentle and controlled at first, an echo of their first time together, bringing tears to her eyes to match those in his. But her hands roam over his body greedily, impatiently helping him rid himself of the remainder of his clothes. She caresses the ripples of his abdomen as she pulls up his shirt, following up the contours of his ribs, around to his back and up over his shoulder blades as she helps him ease the shirt over his head; she tugs at the waistband of his long drawers, her hands slipping the material over his hips, feeling the crisp hair on his thighs before letting the drawers drop down for him to kick off. He immediately stretches against her, and this time they share a sigh at the comfort and heat of their skin meeting; their kiss is urgent, deeper, tongues tangling hungrily, legs entwined, bodies moving restlessly against each other.
When Sylvie breaks away, breathless and dizzy, he trails kisses down her jaw, nuzzling her neck, inhaling deeply and licking. His lips and tongue send delightful shivers through her until his sharp inhale and his tensing body pierces her muddled mind. However, before she can react, she feels him relax, feels his lips smile against her skin triumphantly before he plants kisses along her neck, continuing down her shoulder. Relieved, she decides to shift his attention, lifting up to grab for him, smiling when he moans against her shoulder as her hand closes around his hard cock. He rubs himself against her hand before taking control once more: he pushes her down, kneeling on the bed between her legs, tilting her hips up to tease her, rubbing his hardness against her slick wetness over and over until she is trembling. She arches up, but he resists her attempts to make him go faster, tightening his fingers around her hips with a dark chuckle as he sets the pace, continuing to tease before finally entering with excruciating slowness. She gasps as he fills her, the longing intensifying with his languid strokes as his hands glide her up and down the length of him, and she fists the sheets as the pleasure building in her becomes so acute it frightens her, on the cusp of becoming unbearable. Pulling in ragged breaths she calls out his name with a desperate edge and he stops immediately. Opening her eyes, she finds his are concerned and he begins pulling away. She cries up at him, "For all that is holy, don't stop!" and grabs his arms, wrapping her legs high above his waist to pull him in deeply, gasping at the sensation the new angle creates. He tries to keep it slow, but she pulls him down, this time biting his lip playfully and grazing his back with her fingernails. Taking her cue, the sweetness of his movements turns to forceful thrusts, and her hands grab his buttocks, feeling his muscles tense and contract with his thrusts as she urges him on. His hitched breath mingles with hers as his lips continue to hover above hers, his eyes holding her gaze, until suddenly he closes his eyes in surrender, burying his face in the crook of her neck, crying out as he buries himself completely inside her. This pulls her over the edge as waves radiate through her, her breath taken from her, her mind no longer capable of thought. She clings to him tighter, causing him to collapse onto her, as she revels in feeling the delicious pulsations between them, the fire she'd been craving consuming her. After a wonderful eternity, their trembling slows and she gasps in air, her legs slackening and falling off of him.
Hal is as reluctant as she to lose their touch; he shifts them sideways so that the mattress can bear the majority of his weight as he continues to hold her. This moment is perfect. No conflict, no resistance, no struggle. No horrid past, no uncertain future. Just the two of them, bodies and hearts blending, in this moment.
Their breathing ragged, both crying and smiling and kissing and caressing, Sylvie finally finds peace, enveloped in the arms of her lover once more.
Les Contes des Fées (Fairy Tales) was a collection of tales written in 1697 by Marie-Catherine d'Aulnoy. She is actually the writer who coined the term "Fairy Tales".